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September 30, 2011

Our last full day in France. I’m writing this in a bout of insomnia caused, I think, by a slowly digesting poulet de Bresse and the aftereffects of a stunning 1996 Nuits St. Georges 1er Cru, which actually means something to me now. (When it comes to Burgundies I’ve got the zeal of a recent convert. Holy smokes.) My god, what a trip. I’ve got about a thousand photos and ten thousand memories and I’d share them all but I’m not even sure where to begin. There are a half-dozen meals in Paris that deserve their own novellas, let alone posts … a quest for Marseille’s best bouillabaisse that began — spookily — with a psychedelic song about “fish fish fish fish fish” on the radio … three home-cooked meals in a stone cottage cloaked in history, the former the product of the patient, talented man I call M. and the latter a tale to be savored in Elizabeth’s next book … a exploration of the innards of Animal that could only have happened in Lyon and only in France and which taught me, once and for all, that tripe is worthy of celebration, so long as it’s salted, breaded, and fried (quelle surprise) … and that afore-mentioned Michelin-starred poulet currently making its way through my digestive tract, carved table-side at about 21h last night, dripping in its own oils and probably a kilo of butter because this is Burgundy and they still eat like the Grand Dukes of the West. And that’s just the food. Some of the food.  When I post this, it’ll be morning and I’ll be sitting at breakfast in the courtyard of an impossibly pretty B&B in Nantoux, watching the sun rise on ancient vines. I’ll sip coffee and eat a croissant and a few more slices of cheese — even though we’re mere hours away from a lunch reservation at Ma Cuisine, the lunch that’s “Not To Be Missed” and is promised to make all our fellow Burgundy-lovers jealous (looking at you, Chris) — because what the hell, the diet starts Monday. We’ll visit a few more wineries, Olivier Leflaive for certain, M. will fret about how we’ll take even one more bottle home (but it’s not even up for debate because these are, no exaggeration necessary, the best wines in the world — and about one-fifth the price we’d find them stateside). This time tomorrow we’ll be en route (that’s French for “on the way” :) to Charles de Gaulle, our luggage and bellies a little fuller than when we began, my heart heavy, but looking forward, at least, to snuggling Wilkes when I get home … and telling you all the stories I’ve saved up.

Our last full day in France. I’m writing this in a bout of insomnia caused, I think, by a slowly digesting poulet de Bresse and the aftereffects of a stunning 1996 Nuits St. Georges 1er Cru, which actually means something to me now. (When it comes to Burgundies I’ve got the zeal of a recent convert. Holy smokes.)

My god, what a trip. I’ve got about a thousand photos and ten thousand memories and I’d share them all but I’m not even sure where to begin. There are a half-dozen meals in Paris that deserve their own novellas, let alone posts … a quest for Marseille’s best bouillabaisse that began — spookily — with a psychedelic song about “fish fish fish fish fish” on the radio … three home-cooked meals in a stone cottage cloaked in history, the former the product of the patient, talented man I call M. and the latter a tale to be savored in Elizabeth’s next book … a exploration of the innards of Animal that could only have happened in Lyon and only in France and which taught me, once and for all, that tripe is worthy of celebration, so long as it’s salted, breaded, and fried (quelle surprise) … and that afore-mentioned Michelin-starred poulet currently making its way through my digestive tract, carved table-side at about 21h last night, dripping in its own oils and probably a kilo of butter because this is Burgundy and they still eat like the Grand Dukes of the West.

And that’s just the food. Some of the food. 

When I post this, it’ll be morning and I’ll be sitting at breakfast in the courtyard of an impossibly pretty B&B in Nantoux, watching the sun rise on ancient vines. I’ll sip coffee and eat a croissant and a few more slices of cheese — even though we’re mere hours away from a lunch reservation at Ma Cuisine, the lunch that’s “Not To Be Missed” and is promised to make all our fellow Burgundy-lovers jealous (looking at you, Chris) — because what the hell, the diet starts Monday.

We’ll visit a few more wineries, Olivier Leflaive for certain, M. will fret about how we’ll take even one more bottle home (but it’s not even up for debate because these are, no exaggeration necessary, the best wines in the world — and about one-fifth the price we’d find them stateside).

This time tomorrow we’ll be en route (that’s French for “on the way” :) to Charles de Gaulle, our luggage and bellies a little fuller than when we began, my heart heavy, but looking forward, at least, to snuggling Wilkes when I get home … and telling you all the stories I’ve saved up.

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  1. noraleah posted this